Previous Challenge Entry (Level 1 – Beginner)
Topic: Writing (01/11/07)
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TITLE: Eternal Gift | Previous Challenge Entry
By Pauline Rietz
01/16/07 -
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My father is so poor that none of my five siblings are educated either, each must understand that education is a frivolous waste of valuable labour. What can education buy a black man? Certainly there would be no meal on the table. My father had 6 sons. That was his wealth. Labour.
The weeks were long and hard, the hours were tough. In the wintry, dark mornings of June and July my youthful and underweight body would shudder as I leapt into the icy water of the nearby river to wash before work. My hands would ache with cold as I went about my chores on the farm. The summer months, were the longest, nine of them to be exact. There would be no relief from the heat until, at last the rains would come. Then life was bearable. The rainy season was the labourer’s respite. Even if he worked in the fields. It was better to work the land soaked to the bone than roasting to exhaustion in the relentless African sun.
Sunday was ‘off-day’, a day when I could be a young boy just for a short time, my duties as a family member always ensured that I was up before dawn, even on the ‘off-day’. There was water to be fetched, wood to be collected, cleaning and washing to be done and occasionally a chicken to slaughter and pluck. This was my life. To me Sunday, the day away from the stables and the manure, was my day.
In between my chores I would join the other children, they would show me their schoolbooks. Pages with colour and excitement leaping out at every turn. Longingly, I peered over their shoulders, wishing I could be part of the mystery of the messages written within. I yearned to partake of a world so wonderful and magical that like them, I too could be carried away for hours to far away and exotic places. My place in life would ensure that I have no such pleasure, and yet my desire to get ‘the gift of writing’ grew passionately inside of me. The angry outbursts from my father renouncing my ‘careless’ dreams could not dampen my hopes, in fact they fuelled my determination that one-day, I too would be literate.
Jacob is my name. My family name is Mahachi, meaning horse (for one who worked with horses). I am 73 years old. My eyes are dim with age. My life has been good. I never was wealthy. I never did own a motorcar or a television. I didn’t even have a telephone number or a bank account. Today, lying open before me on my weathered table is my bible. It is written in my native language, Shona. The bible’s pages are tattered and yellowed with age, the cover barely clinging to the body of the book.
My mind drifts back over time and rests on that day in 1947. The day the missionary came to our village. The day my life was transformed for eternity. We gathered around the strange visitor, curiously listening to his message. He gave a message of hope and of extraordinary new life. As he spoke he looked up and saw me in the crowd. He gently motioned for me to come forward. “My brother,” he said, “ I do not know you, but I do know that Jesus has written the words of the Bible just for you.” He reached down. There beside him was a pile of the most beautiful books I had ever seen. Their black leather covers glistened in the sun and the gold edges of the pages shone brilliantly. He took one of those books and handed it to me. It was to be my most valued earthly possession. It was a Bible written in my own tongue.
Almost speechless with gratitude, I mumbled in broken English “Sir, I no read, no school, no writing.” The man smiled at me, his face radiant with love as he portrayed the character of our Saviour. “My brother," he said "Delight yourself in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your heart. Psalm 37 verse 4.” (Psalm 37:4 NIV)
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My only suggestion would simply be a row of three asterisks between the two sections, to more clearly show the passage of time.
You're a talented writer!